


Sometimes We Gamble (The Poppy's Not the Only Way To Nowhere Remix)

by itachitachi



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: M/M, Remix, Reveal, Secrets, Wordcount: Over 10.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-09
Updated: 2010-10-09
Packaged: 2017-10-12 13:17:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,153
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/125219
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/itachitachi/pseuds/itachitachi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are two truths you should know about Arthur Pendragon. He does not do drugs, and he does not gamble.</p>
<p>One of these truths is a lie.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sometimes We Gamble (The Poppy's Not the Only Way To Nowhere Remix)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Mellacita](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mellacita/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Some of Us Look For the Way in Opium](https://archiveofourown.org/works/530678) by [Mellacita](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mellacita/pseuds/Mellacita). 



There were two unfortunate facts in life that Arthur Pendragon had been dealing with for what felt like a very long time. Neither of these facts were things that Arthur had found it within his power to change—much as he had tried—and so he had been prepared to let them lie, like sleeping beasts, ready to pop up and make his life excruciatingly irritating at the worst possible moments. The facts were thus:

  1. Arthur was a terrible patient.  

  2. Merlin had secrets.



The first had been true as long as Arthur was able to remember. He hated being sick, or injured; it meant he was stuck lying in his chambers all day and all night, not allowed to move or eat what he liked or even be free to shift the way he wanted to. It all contributed to a general feeling of being smothered, and in the case of injuries, often meant the addition of excruciating pain.

Arthur was no stranger to pain, of course, excruciating or otherwise. But pain wasn't very pleasant, and being in a constant state of unpleasantness was enough to make even the most even-tempered of knights, Leon included, grimace and gnash his teeth and call Gaius for a dose of poppy juice. Unfortunately, Arthur didn't like poppy, which made things ten times worse. He had tried it for a broken bone once in his youth and found the woozy, loose-tongued state it put him in to be utterly wretched, discounting the intense headache it had given him the morning after. It was worse than the strongest drink, and Arthur maintained that the only reason the other knights liked it so much was because of the amnesia it induced in many of them, causing them to forget the complete and total loss of inhibitions of the night previous.

In any case, the gist of it was that Arthur tried his best to be a good patient without the aid of poppy, but usually succumbed to frustration within an hour or so; from that point on it was only the long, slow countdown before Gaius pronounced him "cured". Until then, he at least tried to restrict the knowledge of his deplorable sickbed conduct to Gaius alone.

And then, Merlin.

Something Arthur had even less control over than his own hatred of being confined to bed was _Merlin_ , and the plethora of little niggling secrets that followed him everywhere he went. Arthur didn't know what Merlin was hiding—only that it made him say the strangest things sometimes, and led to a lot of suspicious behaviour, often involving inconvenient disappearing acts and sometimes involving Morgana's clothing. Arthur had several hypotheses on hand about what the secret could possibly be (Merlin had a secret lover; Merlin was secretly a girl; Merlin had a secret double life _as_ a girl down at the Rising Sun every fortnight or so to supplement his income) but had never really been able to come up with solid evidence for any of them, and had despaired of ever being able to find out the truth.

At least, until last night, when rather than sleeping Arthur had lain awake with the deep throbbing pain of his arm, injured on patrol. He had lain there in the dark, and come up with The Plan.

***

Merlin's medicine bag was on the table, and Arthur eyed it with purpose.

"Merlin," he said.

The manservant in question jerked to face him, knuckles white around the the feather duster he was gripping, and said, " _What?_ You have everything you need. You have food, water, freshly fluffed pillows. I've polished everything. Everything is clean. _Everything_. I'm even dusting, see."

"So you are, and yet not nearly well enough," Arthur said lightly. "There's still dust in the curtains. But that's not the problem. I want another blanket."

"Augh," said Merlin, threw the duster to the floor, and stomped out the door.

It was Arthur's chance. Immediately he threw the covers back and inched his way to the side of the bed. His arm twinged at every movement, even those of his legs, and he could feel sweat breaking out on his forehead before he'd even managed to swing his feet off the edge. It took altogether too long to gain his balance and wobble to his feet, and even longer to manage the stuttering steps to the table.

Somehow, Merlin was back with a blanket just as he'd stopped to brace himself.

"You!" he cried, throwing the blanket to the side and scrambling to catch Arthur—as if he was about to fall, which he wasn't.

Plus one to the _Merlin is a girl_ theory. Even if he wasn't one underneath all those clothes, surely he must have been in a previous life.

Merlin glared at him as if he could read his thoughts. "Trying to distract me and escape?" he asked. He pushed Arthur back toward the bed, palm firm but gentle against his back. "Your father would kill me if I left you unattended and you managed to expire."

" _You're_ the only one dim enough to find a way to off yourself when left alone," Arthur grumbled, allowing himself to be tucked back into bed, his pillows fluffed. The words rang with more truth than expected, and Arthur sighed.

"Here," Merlin said, going back to fetch his medicine bag— _Success!_ Arthur thought—and carrying it over to the side of the bed. "There's got to be something in here that can make you feel better," he said, fishing through the pockets.

"The good stuff," Arthur agreed. He batted Merlin's hands away and started searching the pockets himself.

Merlin frowned at him. "Did you only get up because you wanted to pry around in my bag?"

"Maybe," he said, not denying it. "I'm bored, Merlin." He extracted a bottle of something pinkish and opaque, and promptly tossed it back in; it wasn't what he was looking for. He pulled out a blue jar—better—but Merlin promptly swiped it from him.

"I can see that," Merlin said, his teeth gritted, and put the jar on Arthur's bedside table before trying to—gently—wrestle the medicine bag back.

Arthur gripped harder onto the bag and jerked his chin at the jar. "Give it back," he said.

"No," Merlin insisted.

"Fine," Arthur grumbled, and managed to extract a third jar. "What's this one?"

They played keep-away for a few moments, Merlin snapping at him and Arthur sequestering all manner of stoppered remedies among his sheets, more in an urge to annoy his manservant than anything else. None of them looked quite like what he was looking for, not that he was exactly sure what juice of poppy looked like; he'd never made a habit of taking it, after all. But it was what he needed now, and Arthur eventually proceeded to admit as much out loud.

Merlin, being part girl, proceeded to fuss over him.

"I think you have a fever," he said, chilly hand pressed to Arthur's forehead despite Arthur's best efforts to swat it away.

" _Merlin_ ," he said, trying to hide the heat that had sunk into his cheeks from the pressure of that hand. He would never have permitted this kind of contact if he were well, for more reasons than one. "There is nothing wrong with me except the excruciating pain in my arm. Just give me some of the poppy and I'll go to sleep and feel better in the morning."

Blush under control and certain he had injected enough princely pomp into his pronouncement to avert suspicion, he glanced up at Merlin's face, only to find that the idiot wasn't even looking at him. Hmph.

In the end, Gaius was consulted in judgment on both the issues in question. No, Arthur did not have a fever, but yes, his injuries were severe enough to warrant juice of poppy. Both points to Arthur, which Arthur noted by way of a wide grin shot in Merlin's scowling direction. The second issue didn't pass without comment, unfortunately:

"Poppy?" Gaius asked with some surprise, eyebrow shooting skyward.

"He's been asking after it," Merlin said, arms crossed stubbornly over his chest. "Demanding, more like."

"Hm," said Gaius, and cast Arthur an inscrutable look, but after sufficient poking and prodding eventually announced, "I believe juice of poppy _is_ called for," and Arthur could slump with relief into the pillows.

He was prescribed a ladleful of poppy juice every night for a week, which was better than Arthur had even hoped. There was a lot he could do with seven days.

***

Merlin didn't bother even trying to watch Arthur take the medicine, which took half the fun out of it. Arthur had planned out numerous manoeuvres with which he could distract Merlin (beginning with pointing in random directions in hopes that Merlin would turn away, but growing ever more elaborate should Merlin prove to be smarter than that), and the fact that he wouldn't even need to was a bit deflating.

Only, now that Arthur had pretended to take the poppy (most of it had been drizzled on the floor beside the bed, though the remnants of what had been left on the spoon sat bitterly on his tongue), he had no idea what to do next. Merlin was peering at him closely, a worried droop to his brows, and Arthur couldn't help the trickle of hysteria that wound its way through the back of his head. What was he supposed to _do?_

But so, alright. He was a prince, not a bard, and a horrible liar to boot, but that didn't mean this had to be difficult. All Arthur had to do was think expansively. Anything was possible, wasn't it? The average knight, upon consumption of one spoonful of Gaius' poppy mixture, tended come off looking a bizarre sort of jolly, touchy-feely drunk, and Arthur could do drunk. The touchy-feely bit wouldn't be difficult either. (In fact, Arthur worried that it might be too easy.) He would work on the jolly part; these would all be the tools of his seven-day trade.

***

The plan itself was relatively simple: to work Merlin's guard down until he spilled his secrets out, like juice from a cut plum.

Crucial to this was the element of amnesia, and that wasn't hard to fake at all. That first night, Arthur simply called for a few games of chess and pretended not to remember them the following morning, sitting poker-faced through Merlin's clear befuddlement. There had been a few bits of word-slurring in there as well that Arthur had come up with on the fly, mixing up 'cheese' and 'chess' in a fit of nervous inspiration—and, oddly enough, the fact that Arthur couldn't remember those little things seemed to be what ended up distressing Merlin the most. (Honestly, it hadn't been _that_ funny.)

Now it was the second night, and it too went off without a hitch, Merlin busying himself with stoking the fire in the hearth while Arthur poured his dose of nasty blue medicine over the far side of the bed. He sat there amidst the bedclothes for a moment or two, watching the deftness of Merlin's fingers as they handled the poker, before shaking himself and heaving himself off the bed into a heap on the floor.

Merlin turned to glance at him, plainly unsure whether to be more alarmed or amused. "Now look what you've done," he said. "You could have just asked me to help you move."

"I don't need your help, Merlin, I'm perfectly fine," Arthur replied amicably. Holding his bandaged arm tight to his chest, he scooted forward on his remaining limbs. He ignored how silly he must look; perhaps a little corner of his mind even revelled in it. Silliness went hand in hand with poppy, or so he had decided last night, and to prevent suspicion Arthur would have to be consistent. Consistently silly.

Settling back against the wall, Arthur grinned a little at Merlin and said, "You can stop prodding the logs now. It's quite warm in here already."

Merlin huffed, muttering about "just you exerting yourself", but did drop the poker, instead snatching up Arthur's case of hunting daggers and a polishing cloth, and coming to sit beside Arthur with them.

Arthur watched Merlin's hands at work for a few moments, methodical and soothing. It was a strange peace that Arthur found himself loathe to break, but in the end did anyway.

"Tell me about Ealdor," he said. It was the first thing that came to mind. "Were you as horrible a child as you are a manservant?"

Merlin snorted. "Everyone's a horrible child, aren't they?" he asked.

Arthur opened his mouth to reply that he had been nothing of the sort, but Merlin flashed him a pointed look and said, "Don't even try, sire."

"You have no idea what I was going to say," Arthur told him, affronted. "I might have been about to talk about how I—when I ate apples, when I was small—I would only eat the first bite. I liked crunching into the apples. They're very crunchy. But then I wouldn't eat the rest."

Merlin laughed, eyes crinkling. "It might have been nice to have you as a partner to raid the apple trees with," he said. "We always used to climb Old Man Simmons' apple tree and take all the first apples from it. We got in so much trouble, always had to give half of them back. But of the half we ate, I only ever got one or two. The rest always went to—Will."

Merlin's eyes shuttered then, and he glanced warily at Arthur, as if expecting some sort of reaction. Arthur remembered Will, Merlin's sorcerer friend, who had died saving Arthur in the battle in Merlin's hometown. From what Arthur had been able to tell in the time he'd met Will, he'd been a little snot. The exact sort who would rope poor innocent little Merlin into apple-stealing quests, only to eat all of Merlin's winnings.

"You little pair of scoundrels," Arthur said, smiling to cover the tightness in his chest, and caught Merlin about the neck to scrub at the top of his head. He realised a bit too late that his other arm was bandaged up, however, and in no shape to abuse Merlin's scalp.

From his trapped position, Merlin seemed to realise this as well, and let out a bright laugh, muffled in Arthur's side. Arthur warmed at the feel of it, the not-at-all-wary sound of it, and shoved Merlin free.

"You may have got out of it this time, but I'll catch you again later," Arthur pronounced, patting at Merlin's hair. "When you aren't expecting it. Like a doe on the hunt."

"I'm not a doe!" Merlin protested, swatting Arthur's hand away and brandishing the oily dagger-polishing cloth at him. Even one-handed, it was the work of barely a thought for Arthur to grab Merlin's wrist to turn his own attack against him, and he laughed as Merlin squirmed and shouted into the cloth squashed against his face.

He let Merlin go sooner than he might have otherwise, remembering that he had a pretence to hold up. Merlin muttered cheerful insults under his breath as he went back to cleaning the daggers, and Arthur listened and hummed to himself, poorly. Merlin cracked a glance at him every once and a while, looking almost absurdly pleased, but Arthur couldn't bring himself to do any more about it than a few more vague noogie attempts. He felt a bit absurdly pleased as well.

The last part of the deception was simply that of sleepiness, and that was the easiest part of the whole easy night. Merlin was left with the task of dragging him back to his bed, and Arthur made an effort to be as unhelpful as possible, letting his muscles go lax and heavy as Merlin tried to haul him to his feet. The few steps to the bed were long, unnecessarily complicated, and the two of them knocked warmly into each other with each one. But then Arthur was in bed, watching Merlin's pink face through his eyelashes as Merlin tucked him in. It was all oddly satisfying.

And then Merlin was gone.

It would be easy to simply drop off now, comfortable in the warmth of his bed and the company he had just shared, but something held him back. It throbbed in the back of his mind that he was going to have to pretend that the slow, comfortable evening he had just shared with his manservant had never happened, at least not in his memory. And that _hurt_ , because despite the ruse, the evening had felt honest and open in a way that Arthur had deeply enjoyed. There had been no broken silence on Merlin's part, and they had sat together on the floor like friends did, in a way that Arthur rarely allowed himself to do. He had learnt stupid, apple-flavoured things about Merlin's youth and he already wanted never to forget them.

How was he supposed to last through the next five days? He could back out, he could still back out. There was nothing riding on this; it was just an idea, not fully formed even now. There was little that said this had to matter, and even less that said it had to go on.

Then he thought of another time when he and Merlin had sat together on the chamber floor, and he had given Merlin a noogie to cheer him up. He remembered Merlin's reticence, the tight smile on his face that looked nothing like the bright Merlin-smile that had surfaced countless times tonight.

Arthur wanted to know those things that lurked under Merlin's surface, whatever they were. Whether it was the secret lover hypothesis, which made something in Arthur's chest twist whenever he considered it, or the secret desire-to-crossdress hypothesis, which caused a tingling in something a bit farther down. There were other hypotheses too: ones that had sprung from Arthur's nightmares (Merlin had some sort of incurable disease and was going to die; Merlin was only pretending to like Arthur and was planning on leaving Camelot to seek his fortune elsewhere), or from his craziest, most bizarre dreams (Merlin was actually a pixie in disguise, or a faerie, or a sorcerer). Whichever one of those it turned out to be—or none of them, or all—Arthur just wanted to know.

These thoughts pressed down on Arthur all night, making his head ache almost as much as his arm. He dozed only a little bit, someway in the middle, and woke before servant's dawn with a sense of resolution. He was going to do this, because he was the sort of person who finished what he started, always. But—out of fairness, for every secret that Merlin revealed, Arthur would reveal something of his own.

He must have looked terrible from the sleepless night, because Merlin looked stricken with worry upon seeing him. His hands were tender as he helped Arthur wash and dress— _irritatingly_ tender, because Arthur wasn't a doll, he was a prince. Merlin herded him to the table for breakfast like a sheep that might get lost.

It was breakfast that sparked the resolution in him again; specifically, it was the knife. He blinked at it, remembering the satisfaction on Merlin's face as he had laid all of Arthur's daggers, freshly cleaned and polished, back into their case, and then into the weapons cabinet where they belonged.

Arthur loosened his shoulders casually and gestured to the cabinet.

"Merlin," he said. "Clean my daggers today, would you?"

***

The third night, Arthur decided, would be about him. There would, of course, be place for Merlin to chime in if he felt so inclined, but all Arthur really wanted was to let out a little secret, roughly equal in value to the silly childhood tales Merlin had given. A prince's secrets would usually be worth more, naturally, but he wasn't acting much like a prince right now. And anyway, maybe Arthur loosening up a bit would be the first step to hearing one of Merlin's real secrets.

Tonight they would talk about Morgana and Guinevere, and from there they might go on to talking about girls in general, tomorrow or the day after. Merlin kept clammed up about his love life, but Arthur was curious. Was Morgana the first one to take a step into Merlin's heart? Had there been others? Was there anyone now? (Perhaps Arthur was a little too fixated on this particular topic.)

In any case, tonight he was impatient, and Merlin had only just settled down and gotten comfortable before Arthur opened his mouth to ask. There was no point waiting after all. Perhaps bluntness would work best, with someone like Merlin.

"Do you miss Morgana, Merlin?" he asked, and waited patiently through Merlin's sputter.

"We all miss her," Merlin hedged.

"But you most of all?" Arthur wondered. Merlin paused for a wrenching second, but then laughed. Was it a nervous laugh, perhaps? Arthur couldn't tell.

"I doubt that," Merlin said. "Surely you and your father and... and Gwen miss her much more than I."

Arthur snorted, not buying it; perhaps the direct route wasn't the best one after all, at least not where Merlin's feelings for Morgana were concerned. "Well," he said, trying to let it go, "I was glad that you appeared to recover from your bout of untoward affection for her."

Merlin glared at him and said, boldfaced, "I had no untoward affection for her, Arthur. Ever." It was what Merlin always said. He even managed to hold Arthur's gaze for an admirable moment, before looking carefully away.

Arthur sighed and shifted against the pillows, turning his own gaze to the ceiling. He worried at his lip for a moment, then said, "I did, you know. I had untoward affection for her. Once. I mean, who wouldn't?" He glanced quickly over at Merlin, then huffed and looked back away. He had never told anyone this before, there hadn't been anyone to tell. He'd barely even admitted it to himself.

"She's very... even though she drove me crazy, she was always..." He closed his eyes, remembering her sharp laugh and cutting smile, before sighing again. "Then, one day, it just stopped. And then there was..."

_Merlin_. Merlin had come to Camelot, and Arthur had slowly stopped thinking about Morgana. He hadn't had the time, what with Merlin running underfoot. Tripping him up.

He opened his eyes slowly and saw Merlin staring at him, a wide, broken-open look on his face. "Yeah," Merlin said softly, and Arthur knew that was his answer—Merlin had felt the same thing.

And that was fair, giving up secrets one for one, but now Arthur wanted to know _more_ —how recently Merlin had felt like that for Morgana, and who had taken her place in his affections. Another girl? A boy?

But that _wasn't_ fair—Arthur had yet to repay Merlin for the silly secrets of the night previous, so he huffed a little and breathed, trying to break the moment. They'd talk about Guinevere next, and Arthur would admit something Merlin already half-knew, only this time he'd be honest about it: his uncertainty, his badly-formed plans. And that would be the end of the third step, the biggest yet. He hoped the fourth would be even bigger.

***

It was.

On the fourth night, Arthur had thought that, well, if Merlin hadn't caught on to the amnesia bit by now, he never would, so he might as well broach the subject. They bantered for a little bit, enough for Merlin to settle into something resembling their normal nightly routine (with Arthur a bit more talkative than usual, of course) and then Arthur caught Merlin's wrist as he was passing by.

"I'm not an idiot, Merlin—" much as Merlin clearly thought he was, "Every morning since I've started taking the poppy, you've asked me about things I don't recall. So you can tell me. See how I'll react."

Merlin stared at him, eyes wide like a hunted deer. Like a doe. Arthur grinned at him, eager and languid at once, and kept prodding. Merlin tried to divert him once or twice, but Arthur refused to have any of it; he pressed against Merlin's side and said, "Come _on_ , Merlin. Tell me a secret." He hesitated, then added, "Tell me about—a girl you left heartbroken in Ealdor. Or something."

Merlin trembled against him.

It was cruel, but Arthur had to add, "Unless there weren't any girls?" (He even winked. He wasn't sure if he wanted to know the answer to this, but he had to push. He had to keep pushing and pushing until Merlin cracked.)

And then Merlin did.

"I'll tell you about a girl," he said suddenly, shoving Arthur back to the bed. Arthur let himself be shoved, startled, but then Merlin's eyes softened and he looked down. "Her name was Freya."

The story that unfolded then was almost unbelievable, twisting a series of events that Arthur recalled as full of fear and frustration into something tender, romantic, and clearly cherished. The tale fell from Merlin's lips as if it were something fresh, obviously treasured, and Arthur knew that he was the first to hear of it, but that did absolutely nothing to hinder the cold, ugly feeling that rose at the whole tangled picture of it in his head. Merlin engaging in a clandestine affair was something Arthur had joked about because—because there was _no way_ it could be true.

And yet it was. Here Merlin was, admitting to it. What did it matter that it had never gone anywhere? That she was dead now—that Arthur had killed her himself? That the _only_ part Arthur had played had been in the tragedy of its end?

Why hadn't Merlin come to him? Had he thought Arthur would disapprove? Did he—what had he known about that girl before it started? Had he—had he—

Arthur had Merlin by the shoulders almost before he realised it, pain stabbing through his bad arm as he held tight. "Swear to me," he said harshly, "Merlin. Swear to me you didn't know she was dangerous. You didn't know people would die because you set her free."

Merlin closed his eyes, limp in Arthur's grip, and said, "I promise, I didn't know." And it was Arthur's job to trust him.

He did trust Merlin, he thought. Somehow.

Arthur pulled Merlin in closer, leaned in until their foreheads touched. Merlin's breathing didn't change, and Arthur wondered at how this was the one thing he could offer that Merlin wouldn't flinch away from.

***

The night ended with Merlin brushing away Arthur's attempts at condolences, biting out bitter words as he layered the bedclothes over Arthur's body. Arthur tried to protest once, but Merlin wouldn't have it, and so Arthur settled into the semblance of drowsiness. He was done for the night, he knew. They both were. This was the escape route, and he had to stop now or they would snap. In this story of Merlin's, he was the villain, and there was no changing that. He couldn't begrudge that of Merlin, as much as he wanted to press, keep pressing, until Merlin changed his mind.

"Forget it, Arthur," Merlin murmured, smoothing the sheets over him. "Just forget it, please."

Maybe that was a good idea, Arthur thought, as he listened to the gentle huff of Merlin putting out the candles. If this was the sort of secret Merlin had been keeping, what else might he have under there? Did Arthur dare hope that this was all he was hiding?

_Merlin had a secret lover. Merlin was only pretending to like Arthur, and was secretly planning to seek his fortune elsewhere._

Arthur almost laughed.

In any case, regardless of whether Arthur intended on seeking out more of Merlin's secrets, he had to do something to pay Merlin back for the one he had happened upon tonight. But what secrets did Arthur have that could even compare to the one he had just learnt? Was there anything at all Arthur could tell Merlin that would catch him unawares, wind him like an unexpected mace blow to the gut?

Perhaps there was one. That heaviness, the insistent heat low in Arthur's chest that reminded him that, _no, this isn't enough_ whenever Merlin pulled away from his touch. The fact that he didn't want to be the villain in any of Merlin's stories, past or future.

Would Merlin welcome knowledge of a secret like that, Arthur wondered. Might he even reciprocate, or was that too much to hope for? Either way, these seven days would be Arthur's only chance to find out. He would try, if only to see what came of it, and if he was hurt by what he discovered... well, he would deal with that when it came.

He had nothing to lose, after all.

***

It was the nights that he lived for now, Arthur realised upon sitting through a dinner with his father. The meal had been mostly a formality, an assessment of the progress of his healing. Arthur's arm still sorely hurt, was still tender, though he admitted that all the bed rest was doing it good. He left the dining hall feeling tense, both from pain and from impatience.

He wasn't quite sure how to go about admitting his deep and abiding strong-feelings-that-shouldn't-be-named for his manservant, so he figured he wouldn't say much tonight. Merlin might need a breather from the previous night; Arthur certainly didn't want to break him from too many revelations in too little time. Instead of admitting things outright, Arthur would try the more subtle route, and leave clues for Merlin to pick up and respond to if he wanted to. Only if he wanted to.

This meant, first of all, that Arthur would have to remove his shirt. It wouldn't be much of an invitation if Arthur wasn't half-nude, and anyway, Arthur thought Merlin had always rather liked looking at him shirtless.

The task of getting the shirt off took a little bit of work (and frustration, and eventual assistance from Merlin), but finally ended in success. Merlin handed him the regular phial of thick, blue medicine shortly after, and Arthur raised it to him in toast. For a moment Arthur thought Merlin was actually going to watch him drink it, but it turned out to be almost embarrassingly easy to divert his attention ("What—is that _dust_ on my mantle?") and all went smoothly.

He let himself go quiet that evening, lying in bed and staring at a scroll rather than trying to annoy Merlin, or make him laugh. But after a long while he called Merlin over to sit on the bed beside him, and when Merlin hesitated, he reached out and pulled him down, so they were lying back on the same pillows, amongst the same sheets, Arthur's good arm stretched over Merlin's shoulders. They sat together like that for a long while, Arthur patiently bearing the temptation of proximity, until he could see Merlin's lashes drooping out of the corner of his eyes.

"Have you ever been in love, Merlin?" he asked. Not very subtle then, but he wasn't trying to be. Was trying to be anything but, really.

The ensuing conversation dragged from love, to Guinevere and the virtues of handmaidens, and back again to love. Merlin demonstrated admirable fortitude in the face of a half-naked prince dragging fingers through his hair and all but cuddling against his side, and frustrating reticence to admit to any kind of romantic feeling in his life ever. But Arthur knew that Merlin could hide things, and that he had a streak of loyalty almost as wide as Arthur's; perhaps he was holding back from taking advantage of Arthur even despite the poppy making this the perfect opportunity. It would have been admirable if it wasn't so annoying.

It just meant that Arthur was going to have to be shameless. _Absolutely shameless_. He didn't think it would be too hard; he'd had quite a lot of practice at it in the past few days, and had found that he actually rather enjoyed it.

"Arthur, maybe you should go to sleep," Merlin insisted.

"Mmmmm, good idea," Arthur said, revelling in the tight, nervous edge to Merlin's voice. He slid down the pillows and, in a fit of furious whim, grabbed Merlin's hand in his own and pulled it to his chest.

"Arthur—" Merlin said, trying to extract himself, but Arthur only held on tighter. "Arthur, I need my hand if I am going to bring your breakfast in the morning."

Arthur rolled to face Merlin and studied his face for a moment, the barely-hidden lines of panic in it, and sighed softly. "I have a thing for servants, I think," he said, out of the blue. It was the closest to the truth he had come all night.

He closed his eyes. Merlin's hand was rigid in his, so he squeezed a bit—pressed his nose to Merlin's wrist and ran his cheek over the soft flesh of Merlin's inner arm, where his sleeve had rucked up. Merlin's fingers twitched, but then he stilled, and Arthur stilled too, smoothed out his breathing.

He fell asleep like that, and Merlin must have too, because when Arthur awoke they were both still there, curved together like commas.

***

Apparently one night spent lying next to the object of his affections, both of them as chaste as could be, was enough for Arthur to completely lose it. He spent the next day in a haze, alternately scribbling over the backs of the reports he was supposed to be reading, or tapping his fingers, watching Merlin work and mooning over the bow of his back. Merlin started the morning looking frazzled, his gaze jumping away from Arthur's face whenever it got close, but he loosened up as the day stretched on and Arthur continued to not say anything outright about the previous evening. Though really, it should have been obvious that Arthur did remember. He was barely even trying anymore.

When it came down to Arthur's plans for the next night, he couldn't think much past _Merlinmerlinmerlin_. It was like a disease, an addiction. Arthur had a craving; it was as if Merlin, not the poppy, was the real drug here.

Arthur wasn't completely lost, though. Merlin wasn't taking advantage of Arthur's own supposedly-loosened inhibitions, so Arthur ought not take advantage of Merlin's trust in him (any more than he already was) just to engage in carnal acts.

Not that Merlin had yet expressed any interest in aforementioned carnal acts.

...Not that Merlin had expressed any sort of _dis_ interest in aforementioned carnal acts.

Augh—no. _No_. This was a terrible train of thought. Arthur couldn't go down that road, he just couldn't.

There were only two more days. Maybe Arthur could extract one more secret from Merlin in that time, even if it was just something stupid like—like Merlin's favourite colour, or something he'd like Arthur to get him for the winter solstice. Or the story of his first kiss, or— _damn it all_.

Arthur had two days left.

***

On further reflection later that night, it became clear that Merlin had no clue Arthur was trying to admit his deepest, darkest secret to him, and therefore, it wasn't Arthur's fault if he ended up reneging on his own decision not to take advantage of him. Taking advantage of him looked like the only way Merlin would _notice_.

"Chicken, Merlin," Arthur said, faking the loose-limbed effect of the inebriated as Merlin dragged him to bed, but faking none of the giddiness. "I want to feed you chicken." (There was all manner of things Arthur wanted to feed Merlin, but chicken as a metaphor for courtship was probably the least obscene.)

Merlin dropped him on the bed and held him down with a bony arm. Arthur sighed, giving in to the wild desire to stroke his hand along it—Merlin snatched it away immediately.

"You should eat more chicken so you aren't so bony," Arthur pouted. (He was pouting. He didn't even bother denying it.) "Guinevere isn't bony. She's got padding." _Are you jealous of her, Merlin? Are you?_

Merlin gave Arthur an incredulous look, as if he were being ridiculous. Which, alright, he was. "Arthur, if you ever hope to get anywhere with Gwen, do not tell her she has _padding_."

Arthur flashed him a look of plain disgust; Merlin was an idiot. "Obviously, Merlin. Anyway, it's not like she has a _lot_ of it. It's just you don't have any. No one will want to sleep with you holding their hands if you are bony." _No one except poor besotted fools, like me._

Merlin turned away, and Arthur suppressed a sigh. Was even a mention of the previous night enough to freak him out?

Well, there was nothing for it. If undressing hadn't been enough, if long, intimate caresses weren't enough, if blatant flirtation wasn't enough, then Arthur had only so many other options. He had a secret, and he had to tell it. He could afford the risk.

With his better hand, he reached out and gripped Merlin by the back of the jacket, pulling him down onto the bed with one swift tug. Onto the bed, across Arthur's lap.

"Er," Merlin said, eyes rolling wildly as he got his bearings, "sorry, Sire."

He tried to roll away, but Arthur kept a grip on his wrist. "My pleasure," he said, grinning slyly into Merlin's face. "'Course, it would be more pleasure if you weren't so... bony. But you'll do."

"I'll do... what?" Merlin asked, sounding weak.

Arthur didn't laugh. He didn't. He just leaned in, murmured, "it's a secret," against Merlin's mouth, and kissed it, full and hard, like he'd been dreaming of doing for so long.

It felt like ages before anything happened; he was moving his mouth and he could taste Merlin's breath, but Merlin wasn't kissing back. Arthur panicked for a moment, fingers going tight in Merlin's sleeve—he considered closing his eyes and pretending to drop off to sleep—when suddenly Merlin's mouth moved. He leaned in, hesitant at first but then firming slowly, opening his mouth and everything. He was _kissing back_.

Arthur shuddered once and then—dropped back to the bed, eyes shut, as limp as he could get when a certain part of him was going very, very—not limp. That was enough for one night, Arthur thought, brain spinning. Maybe if Merlin was dim enough, he wouldn't notice that Arthur's heart was still pounding like he'd run a race.

He could hear the sound of Merlin's breathing, loud in the sudden silence. There was a long pause, a shift from below as Merlin moved back slightly on the mattress. And then—Arthur felt Merlin's hand brush his chest. He went as still as he could but for the movement of his lungs, and felt Merlin's hand settle more firmly down, radiating warmth against Arthur's breastbone. Then it trailed up, fingertips tracing the edge of Arthur's jaw before coming to stroke, ever so lightly, against his bottom lip.

They lingered there long enough for Arthur to consider doing something extremely foolish (something like—fuck the plan—dipping his chin to take Merlin's fingers into his mouth to suck) before they abruptly drew away. There was a jostle as Merlin hurried off the bed, then the quiet puff of candles going out. The orange light on the other side of Arthur's eyelids dimmed instantly to black.

Then there was just the sound of Merlin taking one long, shuddering breath, before scuffing his way away. When the door shut, it was in almost complete silence.

***

If the previous morning had been bad, waking up to the sight of Merlin's bedhead, then this one was complete torture. Arthur could still feel the phantom touch of Merlin's fingers against his mouth when he awoke, earlier than the sun. He didn't bother getting up or even moving from the hot cocoon he'd made in the blankets for ages, revelling in the sensation on his lips, until Merlin walked in.

"Still abed, I see," he said, pulling open the curtains. "Lazybones."

Arthur wasn't sure if that was a tremor he could hear in Merlin's voice. Still, if Merlin was playing ignorant about last night, it meant he hadn't realised Arthur had only been feigning those moments of sleep. The game was still on—Arthur had one more night.

One more night of the medicine, and then Arthur would have to go back to reality. He didn't know what he would do then. He couldn't keep all of this bottled up, obviously, not if Merlin was going to do things like kiss him back. But how was he supposed to let Merlin know that he knew about the kissing, when it would also mean he would have to admit knowing about the girl Merlin had fallen for, and lost? There was no way he could tell Merlin about the game without it sounding like some sort of elaborate setup—which was what it had been, but not exactly, and not in a bad way. Arthur had just been _curious_. And now he couldn't get enough.

But he could think about all this later. He had one night left, and he wasn't going to waste it.

***

He did the gentlemanly thing first, and attempted to give Merlin an out.

"You never watch me when I take the medicine," Arthur noted, watching Merlin closely as he measured out the next dose—the last dose. "My nurse used to watch me swallow and then make me stick out my tongue, to prove I had taken it all."

Merlin thrust the phial over at Arthur. "Why would I watch you, Sire? You're a grown man, as you remind me constantly."

Arthur glanced at him over the rim of the phial, unable to contain the rush of mischievous sentiment. "Would you like to watch me swallow and then see my tongue, Merlin?"

He watched Merlin's rapid blink, his quick swallow. Arthur grinned when he finally turned away, and took the opportunity to pour the dose of poppy mixture with relish onto the floor beside the bed, like he had all the others. The little puddles coated the stones there like a sticky blue pox. "Blah," he said, and tossed the empty phial onto the bedside table. "I won't miss the taste of that stuff, that's for certain."

"And to think you were begging me for it at first," Merlin replied, turning back.

"Oh, was I really?" Arthur asked. But yes, he really had been. And he refused to be ashamed of it, either, because it had been a bloody _brilliant_ plan.

In any case, Arthur noted the fact that Merlin had passed up his invitation to watch him drink the medicine, and took it as a sort of invitation in itself. Merlin couldn't be missing these things on purpose. He'd had seven chances to watch Arthur drink his medicine, and had not taken even one; he had not even made sure Arthur was really asleep when he'd 'fallen asleep' in the middle of a kiss.

No, Merlin was trying just as hard to maintain the illusion as Arthur was. Harder, even, because Arthur didn't care about the façade anymore.

It had been about secrets, once. Merlin's secrets, and how Arthur could find out what they were. And yet here Arthur was, caring about none of that, only settling languidly back into the pillows of his bed as Merlin fiddled nervously with the blankets. "Stop that," Arthur said, and reached up to tangle his hands in Merlin's hair. "You're so useless."

"You're an arse," Merlin muttered, not pulling away.

"Mm-hmm," Arthur agreed, and dragged him down, ran his tongue lewdly along the pink jut of Merlin's lower lip.

"I have a secret, Merlin," he murmured, glancing up into Merlin's eyes. _And I want you to wring it out of me. Come on._

Merlin made a choked noise, staring at Arthur, but didn't move either way. "Yes, you mentioned before that you had a secret, sire," he said.

Arthur couldn't help his laugh—Merlin was just fixated on the game of it all, wasn't he? He just _wasn't getting it_. "No I didn't," he eventually said, playing along. "I think I'd _remember_ saying _that_."

He slid his hands down to the sides of Merlin's face and kissed him again, just pressing their mouths together and breathing. _Come on, Merlin. You want to know? Then twist it out of me._

But Merlin wouldn't move, wouldn't pull back or push forward or do _anything_ but shudder there and look stunned. Arthur huffed against his mouth with impatience, and at last just gripped Merlin's shoulder and drew him down onto the bed, rolled on top of him. Then, because he could (and because Merlin's shirt was worn shamefully thin, barely doing anything to cover him anyway), he stripped Merlin to the waist. That was much better, really, and Arthur almost groaned aloud at the sight when Merlin closed his eyes and tipped his head back.

He settled onto the heated expanse of him, the myriad hidden dips and bones of him, curling his hands along Merlin's pale sides and leaning down to press great kisses against his chest. Merlin trembled as Arthur worked his way up, all the way to the edge of his ever-present red scarf.

"Sire," Merlin said weakly, as Arthur pulled the scarf aside and began marking up the skin beneath it. He hummed a little against the skin of Merlin's throat; he needed to do better if Merlin was still insisting on coherence.

"Arthur," Merlin said, more insistently this time.

Arthur raised his head and grinned down at Merlin, who was flushed, sweaty-faced already. He opened his mouth to needle him again—tease him, ask if Arthur was going to have to do all the work, _something_ —when Merlin drew in a sudden breath and said, in a low voice that caught Arthur right in the gut: "I have a secret too, Arthur. Want to know what it is?"

Arthur blinked. _Maybe, once? Not anymore, no. I just want—I want—_

Whatever his answer was going to be, it didn't come quick enough for Merlin, who took the opportunity to flip their positions, barely even bothering to be gentle as he wrestled his way on top of Arthur. Arthur didn't struggle at all at first, just stared up into the sudden wildness of Merlin's face, before remembering that as the prince he really ought to make _some_ sort of effort to stay on top. He jerked a few times, pushing against the weight of Merlin settled on his legs, but then gave in, moaning at the scratch of Merlin's fingers sliding up under his shirt. Arthur went mad when Merlin happened upon his nipples; he pinched them, scratched them, licked over them and even bit them, apparently doing his best to get Arthur to concuss himself against the headboard.

"Merlin," Arthur gasped on the next shudder of pleasure, wondering if he had given this plan enough thought. Obviously he hadn't, he'd been thinking with the smaller of his heads, but— "What? I mean—" he babbled. He felt like he was in over his head. Did he really want to do this? Did he really want to do this _like this_?

Merlin let out a hot breath over his nipple and he writhed, twitching completely involuntarily and letting loose an embarrassingly loud whimper. Right. So that answered that question. But would _Merlin_ want to go through with it?

Merlin's sudden hands at the laces of Arthur's sleeping trousers answered _that_ question, and Arthur had to hold back a sudden fit of hysteria. What was he going to say to Merlin in the morning? Fuck, what was he going to say to Merlin during the _afterglow_?

Assuming they got that far, because Merlin had been fumbling around at Arthur's laces for what felt like hours now. He lifted his head and his hands, about to smack Merlin out of the way and work the laces apart himself, when suddenly Merlin's eyes flashed gold, and Arthur's trousers were open. Which was good, right, but—Merlin's eyes. Flashing gold. There was only one thing that could mean.

Merlin was a sorcerer. Which wasn't _possible_ , it couldn't be, but there was the evidence.

Unless... this was just some sort of evil sorcerer who had taken Merlin's form, for what purpose Arthur had no idea. To seduce him? That didn't make sense; it wasn't even what had happened. But no, this _had_ to be Merlin, because an evil sorcerer who was just pretending to be Merlin wouldn't look at Arthur that way, meeting his eyes with that wrenching combination of fear, lust, and guilt. No one else would look at Arthur that way. Which meant... oh god. Merlin was a sorcerer.

Arthur stared at him in shock, frozen in place. Merlin licked his lips once, and glanced quickly down at Arthur's cock, still hard and poking out of his open trousers, before looking back at Arthur. He looked a bit less terrified now, his jaw tight, and glanced back down at Arthur's still-quite-interested cock.

_You can't possibly be serious_ , Arthur thought, but realised that Merlin was apparently the sort of sorcerer who used his powers to open other people's trousers, so maybe he was serious. Merlin was an idiot. An idiot who wanted to get Arthur off _so badly_ he wasn't even going to wait for them to talk about this revelation before doing it.

In fact, it seemed he wasn't going to let Arthur speak at all, because he pressed a hand over Arthur's mouth at the same time as he slid a hand around his cock. Arthur tried to moan at the same time as he tried to protest, which resulted in a sort of jerky writhe; Merlin stared down at him for a few long moments, a fierce determination in his eyes, and Arthur gave in, falling back and arching into Merlin's strokes. They needed to talk, they needed to—

He didn't even realise Merlin had moved until he felt Merlin's lips around his cock, nor that Merlin had released his mouth until he heard his own whimpers. He tried to hold them back but couldn't seem to stop himself; Merlin worked him into a frantic mess, holding him down and sucking like he'd never get another chance at it. Arthur struggled under his mouth, caught between _wait, wait_ and _don't stop, oh god Merlin please don't stop_ , and then he was coming, loudly, harder than he thought he ever had in his life.

When he was finished he slumped back into the pillows, feeling boneless. Merlin's hands were still hot on his hips, and he remembered that there was something important that needed to happen. Talking, they needed to talk.

Hazily, he felt Merlin shift back. Arthur was going to open his eyes, he was. Any moment now. Did they really have to talk?

Merlin slid off the mattress and padded quietly away. Arthur's breath hitched, but then Merlin was padding back. A warm, wet cloth slid over Arthur's chest, mopping up the sweat there, before sliding lower. Arthur flushed; he was going to open his eyes now.

But he didn't. Merlin carefully worked the ties of his trousers back together, pulled his nightshirt down, bundled the covers over him, and Arthur didn't once blink. Part of it was incredulity—did Merlin honestly not see that he was faking?—but part of it was pure nerves. He didn't want to have the conversation. He didn't want to hear about Merlin's magic, or the ways that he'd used it, or the ways he'd lied. Maybe there were some secrets that ought to have been kept.

But _no_. Arthur had to speak to him about this. Arthur had been the one to tease the secret out, and no matter how much it hurt to know about it, he couldn't take it back.

He had words on the tip of his tongue, when the candles went out. The door clicked shut.

Arthur was asleep before he realised it.

***

The next time he saw Merlin was for the midday meal, the following day.

"You didn't bring me my breakfast," Arthur said, trying not to pout or otherwise give away the fact that he'd been worried. He'd thought Merlin's absence had been the indication of something terrible: that upon giving away his deepest secret (or at least, Arthur hoped that was his deepest secret), he had fled from Camelot.

"I was giving your sword an extra polish in the armoury," Merlin said, his smile sudden and quite obviously relieved. "You're meant to be practicing with it today. I thought I'd shine it up extra so you could feel some pleasure in dirtying it up again."

Arthur laughed at that, incredulous and a bit relieved himself. Merlin had no clue, did he?

On one hand it was a good thing, Arthur thought, as they shared the simple meal of bread and cheese. Merlin thought that Arthur had forgotten all of it, all of those seven nights, and appeared perfectly willing to go back to how things had been before it had all happened. It was a tantalising prospect.

On the other hand, it was dishonest. Even if Merlin was the sort of person who could pretend some truths were false, who could lie to Arthur's face over and over (and they would have words about that), Arthur wasn't. He couldn't do that; he didn't want to bear the weight of a crushing secret like that. He didn't want to erode away under the strain, didn't want to fall prey to dark silences like Merlin's. He wanted the air clear.

Things would probably change if he told Merlin he knew. But that didn't have to be a bad thing, especially if he could feel Merlin's hands against him some time other than when he was fitting Arthur in or out of his armour. Assuming he forgave Arthur for the deception. He would have to, though. Arthur couldn't imagine it any other way.

***

All attempts to begin the conversation with Merlin, however, met in failure. Arthur just didn't know how to do it—perhaps this was why Merlin had never told him about the Druid girl, or any of the rest. It was just too hard to figure out how to _start_.

Subtle hints like "Would you like to clean my daggers again, Merlin?" went unnoticed (and were sometimes met with a nasty glare). Conversation openers like "Merlin, we need to talk" were met with a barely-veiled look of panic. By the end of a few days Arthur was already impatient—he wanted it over with, but he didn't want to _say_ anything.

On the night before the day he was due to return to patrolling with the knights, he found himself unable to sleep. It was worrisome; he needed to be well-rested if he was going to be able to fight with anything resembling competence after such a long break, but instead he found himself rolling about in bed, pressing his face into his pillows and trying to see if he could smell Merlin there. One pillow smelled of sour milk, and subsequently found itself subject to a furious tantrum; Arthur beat his fists at it for a minute, thinking of all the mysteriously fallen branches and last-minute rescues characteristic of his recent escapades, and then threw the pillow to the floor on the far side of the bed.

Irritatingly, it wasn't long before he felt a flicker of remorse. The pillow hadn't done anything wrong; Arthur imagined the disapproving face Merlin would have pulled if he had been witness to the scene. Reluctantly, he reached over the edge and pulled the pillow back up.

That wasn't the only thing he felt over the edge, however. While grasping for the pillow, Arthur's knuckles brushed through something sticky, and, upon inspection, he found them sporting vivid blue stains—the poppy. It was still on the floor, of course; Merlin hadn't cleaned under the bed since this had all started.

Arthur stared at the blue on his knuckles, and then at the seven tiny puddles of the stuff on the floor, a light going on in his head.

Someone _would_ have to clean that up. Fortunately, he knew exactly who.

***

"I expect the floor to be sparkling when I return from patrol," Arthur said, clenching and unclenching his gloved fists. "That includes under the bed." If Merlin didn't catch the hint this time, he didn't know what he'd do.

Merlin was rolling his eyes in Arthur's direction, a picture of insubordination. "Yes, Sire," he said, and went back to dusting at the mantle.

Arthur left him there, and went down to the stables to gather with the rest of the knights for patrol. He felt a bit hesitant about leaving Merlin all alone, but he thought it would be better this way; Merlin would be free to panic as much as he wanted, knowing that Arthur wasn't going to be back for hours, and then calm down in time for his return. It was a show of trust, too. Arthur had to trust that Merlin wouldn't run.

And he did trust Merlin, he thought fiercely, as he led the knights out the castle gates. Merlin hadn't run after he'd told Arthur about the Druid girl, and he hadn't run after the last night of the poppy, when he'd accidentally revealed his magic. So why, then, did this feel so much more risky than those mornings-after, when he'd lazed about in bed hoping to see Merlin's bright smile come to greet him with a plate of breakfast?

Because, Arthur realised, drawing his horse to a slow halt, those revelations had been part of a game. He'd treated them like a game—had treated _Merlin_ like a game—and he'd had nothing to fear from them. Even the unexpected things that Merlin had revealed within the safety of those poppy-laced nights, the painful things, had all been things he'd been asking for. They'd been the winnings of his little gambles, and he had been prepared to take them, whatever they were, so long as they were honest.

But this was a bigger gamble than all that. If he lost this one, he wouldn't simply be finding out something he didn't want to hear—he'd be losing Merlin.

And that was not something he was prepared to risk.

"Sire?" Leon called.

Arthur started, realising that he'd halted at the head of the patrol line. The knights had come to their own stops, clustering around and behind him and looking on with varying degrees of worry.

"There's nothing wrong," Arthur said, trying to hide how he'd been caught off-guard. "I've just remembered something I've left... unfinished. I'll have to return to Camelot. Leon will lead today's patrol, as he has been."

The knights all nodded, taking his word for it, and reassembled themselves into their lines. Leon saluted to Arthur, still looking a bit concerned. He probably thought Arthur's injury was still paining him, Arthur realised, and nearly winced. Oh well; he'd deal with the aftermath of that assumption later.

The ride back to Camelot went by in a blur, and Arthur nearly made the journey from the stables to the royal wing in a flat-out run. He didn't want to be too late—what if he was already too late?

Standing before the door to his own chambers, Arthur could hear not a peep from inside, not a scuffle, not a breath. He couldn't imagine Merlin leaving Camelot without a word, but Arthur's imagination couldn't serve as a prediction of reality any longer; not with the reality of Merlin as Arthur now knew him. Arthur still trusted him, but it was a dangerous sort of trust, the kind that could burn your hands if you weren't careful.

But no, that wasn't right either. That was how it had always been. Arthur trusted Merlin with his life, but he had never been able to trust Merlin not to make the stupidest of choices. Running away sounded like exactly the kind of stupid choice Merlin might make, and Arthur wasn't going to take the risk; not anymore.

Merlin was worth too much, and Arthur had never been the gambling sort.

Catching his breath, Arthur put his hand on the door. Whether Merlin was inside still, or had gone, was all out of his hands. All he could do was make the best of whatever happened next.

He opened the door.

**Author's Note:**

> This work is a remix; if you don't know how the story ends, check the original work by Mellacita (linked at top). :) Thanks for reading, I hope you enjoyed!


End file.
